


Far From the Tree

by wonderble



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderble/pseuds/wonderble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newton's law in the form of John, 9.81 m/s and gaining force until impact.</p><p>Or, Harold used to like apples. John pushes at meaningless boundaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From the Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Season 2, Episode 18: All In. Somewhat canon compliant up until that point.

Day 540 - _Strudel_

Once, Harold had liked apples.

Their bold colors were like a challenge — their solid crunch against teeth, a salute. Then came the sudden burst of sweet or sour, bright against the tongue, and the sticky slide of juices running down his throat. 

 No wonder the city had adopted the it as a name, this supposed bane of doctors everywhere, this inspiring illustration of gravity, this prize of one’s eye.

And of course, their literary weight could not be denied! Why, even a layperson on the street knew about apples and the first fall of man, apples as the pratfall in a race of the gods, how the sweet sour mix could be the first taste leading into a lifetime of the undying. 

Yet still,  _still_ humanity kept swallowing apples down, despite the knowing, despite the cost of dying ... or not dying... or the wrath of gods. How could  _anyone_ not find that fascinating?

Mr. Reese had brought in a box of apple strudels today. 

Unfortunately, he had also brought in a pleased smirk, one that made Harold squint, straighten up, and consider reviewing past library footage for shenanigans.

Harold's past data and experience indicated that particular sort of smirk could only mean one thing: his partner, as the colloquial saying went, was "up to no good."  More worryingly, Reese had _wanted_  Harold to know that the ex-agent was up to no good.

Given that "no good" when used in conjunction with his partner could mean anything from nosily tweaking at Harold's prized card catalogs to various forms of things-going-boom, Harold felt justified in being concerned and running through several privacy protecting contingencies and checking up on his partner's various ammo caches. The man was worse than a squirrel, at times. A trigger happy assassin squirrel, perhaps, but one who had the supreme self-satisfaction of knowing a bullet was within reach at any given moment.

A quick analysis of his own recent behavior patterns revealed -- ah. There it was, the precipitating event: his initial snubbing of yesterday's apple danishes. And -- now that he thought about it -- he could probably factor in his ignoring of the apple tarts two weeks ago. 

Typical. Leave just a hairline crack and the man would be at it with a crowbar. Harold had to press his lips together to hold in the sigh.

“It’s from this little German bakery on the Lower East side. They make everything from scratch," Reese said as he wagged the box to and fro. The wind had tinged his face with just the slightest hint of red. His hands were suspiciously bare; his gloves were missing yet again, and his fingers looked white with cold. At his feet, Bear waggled his own bottom, hoping for a crumb or a fumbled fall of frosted goodness.

Harold felt an strange burst of ... something ... at the oddly endearing sight.

Perhaps indigestion. He narrowed his eyes. “That’s a bit far to travel for pastries, especially in this wintery weather.”

“Exercise is good for the soul and I don't mind the cold. Maybe you could drop by my place before work sometimes; we could walk there together, enjoy the sunrise, catch some early morning car fumes." Reese set the box down, right at the edge where Harold was _sure_ to bump it with his elbow. "They have breakfast schnitzel!"

 Harold's scowl earned a raised eyebrow in reply.

“C’mon, try a bite. They just about melt in your mouth and have this great tang…”

“No, I'll pass,” said Harold as he stiffly maneuvered the offending pastries away, even though he knew he was just adding line of data for his partner in regards to his behavioral shift. 

He also ignored Reese’s questioning head tilt, choosing instead to type in the finishing touches on a new code.

Perhaps he _had_ liked apples, especially ones baked into strudels from this particular bakery (though _how_ Reese had winnowed out that particular detail -- given Harold only visited it once, while _alone_ \-- well, at this point of their suicide-pact-cum-vigilante-superhero-cum-illegal-voyeur-of-justice partnership, Harold knew the utter futility of bringing up boundaries.) 

But now, however ...

“We have a new number.”

—-

Day 541 - _Crisp_

The next day, it was apple crisps from the Little Pie Company in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Mrs. O’Keeffe gave me an extra,” Reese said. A hint of a grin curled at the corners of his mouth. The one that had earned the freebie crisp, Harold imagined, must have been a full one, the kind that slipped up both sides of Reese’s mouth and crinkled at his eyes.

It was almost enough to make Harold nibble at the very edge of the crust. _Factor that into your new data set!_ he thought, somewhat uncharitably.

“No, thank you,” he said instead, but not without regret as the half grin melted away. Perhaps he should have taken a bite, even if it wasn't to introduce anomalies into Reese's data mining efforts. Positive social interactions from his partner (particularly behaviors that did not result in any form of bullet-to-patella contact) should be encouraged.

Moreover, Reese did have a reason to indulge, if only for the moment. Mornings after an easily-fixed-with-shootings--beatings-and/or-threats-to-your-credit-score-number were to be treasured. It was like being allowed to wake slowly in a sun warmed room with the last remnants of a _very_ good dream still floating in your mind.

Harold hated to ruin it.

Especially since he, too, could almost picture Mrs. Nguyen waking up slowly for the first time in years. Perhaps she would take a few breaths and lay there, letting her heart calm to the rhythm of being able to stand at the window again and look out, of sorting through the mail without flinching, of knowing that she would definitely be seeing husband coming through the door that night as he made his way to work and back.

Though statistically speaking -- and yes, he had some statistics, even if they were somewhat anecdotal --it would probably take more than a day for her to get used to breathing freely. She would have to become accustomed to strolling and not limiting the minutes to a dash, to see faces as belonging to real people, instead of nameless threats and possible informants.

She would need time to notice that the sky was still blue, whether she scared or not.

Maybe after her hands learned newer textures, beyond the furrows that came from clutching at the rail of her front stoop, maybe then, it would come.

One day she would have enough courage for a walk outside that was _just_ that: a walk.

He and Reese —they had given her a chance for that, a chance to look at the sky again.

And it was almost enough, just like the spicy apple smell was almost enough to make his mouth water instead of making his stomach roil. 

“You sure?” Reese repeated. He had come within an arms length of the computer banks, free hand only inches from Harold’s face, palm up. The tips of his fingers were still slightly buttery.

Harold licked his lips and wished for a taste other than ashes.

“I’m certain, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, bracing internally as Reese’s shoulders dipped.

One day at a time. One step. One more try, and let go of the rail.

As Reese cast the box aside, Bear’s head immediately bobbed forward, ears alert and swiveling as he glanced between his two favorite people and the path to the trash bin. _  
_

_At least someone is happy,_ Harold thought.

Bear obviously knew what scorned apple crisps meant. Cause and effect manifested in food; animal sense at its finest.

“Baked goods notwithstanding, we have another number.”

—-

Day 546 - _Pi(e)_

The numbers never stopped coming.

Lately, neither did the apple products.

“Will a Chevy, a levy, or a whiskey and rye be among the petty cash slips next?” Harold asked, five days later as the scent of cinnamon curled in feedback arcs between them. 

Reese just grinned his half grin again. Bear had already locked eyes on the box, rear end and tail varnishing the floor as he valiantly tried to obey the given orders of sit and stay while fighting the baser instinct of pie! Pie! PIE!

This time, he was going to _insist_ that Reese walked the box to a dumpster at least three blocks away.

Bear was getting more than a little fluffy around the sides due to the ex-agent's inability to dispose of the last few rounds of pastry in a completely Bear-proof manner. (The way his partner had pursed his lips and looked sidelong when Harold had brought _that_ up, well, Harold’s mind shied away from using the word _pushover_ — Reese was anything _but._ However, Reese also wasn’t the one left holding the leash after Bear’s butter, sugar, and apple orgy.)

The thought hot in hand, Harold began the yet another search for a trash bin with a dog proof lock. So far, nothing looked promising. Bear was far too intelligent for any ordinary means of doggy deterrent.

“He'd be through those in three minutes, tops,” Reese confirmed as he leaned over to study some likely candidates. “Besides, let him have some fun. Life’s boring if you can’t get into a little bit of trouble.”

“I am not surprised you would think so, Mr. Reese, but as I have said --- numerous times now, if I may point out -- someone has to be the disciplinarian in this dog owning partnership. Canines thrive best when given consistent structure and a model on which to base their behavior.”

Instead of answering immediately, the ex-operative gently bumped Harold's shoulder as he straightened up, reached over for his drink, then took a long swig. Harold could just make out the handwritten scrawl of apl. sp. lat.  through Reese's fingers. He could also smell a rather familiar fruity scent through the heavier aroma of latte.

Because, of course, Reese was not one to kill when overkill was possible.  


"Awww, you're just jealous that you can't be the fun dad."

"Excuse me?" Harold adjusted his glasses, pushing them upward even though it wasn't his sight that needed tuning. "The _fun dad_?!"

Reese just took another long pull from his cup.

Harold tried not to stare at the long, exposed neck, rippling with the swallow. As always, Mr. Reese had left the white collar of his shirt open, ostensibly baring his throat to the world.

And as always, he didn't look any less dangerous.

For a moment, perhaps influenced by the scent of cinnamon and the sense of peevishness, Harold wondered what, exactly, a "fun dad" would look like and how he might jam John Reese into those parameters. As brilliant as his brain admittedly was, it took a moment.

Perhaps ... no, t-shirts and jeans, he just couldn't see that .... Reese could (and had) worn that combination before, but his attitude had made it clear that such clothes were a costume -- and a flimsy one that was shucked off at the first opportunity. Harold had the suspicion it had to do with Reese's assassin squirrel tendencies ... not enough places to tight jeans to hide his nuts.

Any paisley or any form of a golf shirt combo -- or  heavens help them all, Hawaiian shirts!-- definitely not.

There was nothing for it; suits remained the only option ... but instead of black-and-white-and-deadly, a _fun_ suit. Perhaps if Harold exchanged Reese's white dress shirts for something in a popping red or a harvest gold: bold colors like a challenge, open collar with the flesh peeking out _just so._

 _"_ Finch? You ... ok there?" Reese’s mouth had quirked at corners again. It led to the inevitable, embarrassing conclusion; Reese had been staring at Harold staring into space …

 _All the while thinking about a "fun" suit. Heaven help me._ Harold thought.

"Ah, yes. I'm perfectly well, Mr. Reese."

"Really? You looked like your brain was on screen saver mode ... penny for your thoughts?"

 "A penny is hardly sufficient," Harold clicked the mouse, closing the search for a harmony inducing waste receptacle. "Though if you insist on knowing, I was just ruminating on our past number."

It wasn't a _complete_ falsehood. Their past number _had_ dealt with a family, though that father had been somewhat less than a "fun dad" and more of the "not fun" sort from the usual card pile of miscreants, misdealings and murder.

Some days, the only difference in their cases came in how the characters were shuffled; the hows and the whys of game was always the same. Money. Lust. Resentment. Jealousy.

They had managed to save their number, but still -- little Marcus had cried and cried (and had not stopped, not for nearly two days, much to Harold's dismay as he accessed the baby monitor) about having to leave his favorite house behind, about leaving his favorite park and tree behind, about leaving his _only favorite_ kindergarten _ever_ behind.

And Marcus had yet to know about dad leaving.

It made Harold want to rub his eyes too, though for different reasons. It was tiring, at times, to see how human behavior didn't change, no matter how hard he and Mr. Reese tried, no matter how any society had tried, no matter what the given structure, no matter how many times there were treats or consequences involved.

There was no doggy proof lock for basic human indecency.

It almost made him think that — no. No. _No_ , that would never be the answer.

Harold gritted his teeth, immediately banishing the very notion to the very recesses of his mind, filing it under "to be reviewed-never."

In comparison, arguments about canine domestication and for variations to Mr. Reese’s rather monochromatic wardrobe ...

How utterly  _messy_ of him to allow his thoughts to wander in such a manner.

“Finch?” Reese's voice came again, softer this time. 

“Yes?” Harold blinked at the cup that had been thrust in his face.

"Want the last sip? You look like you could use the caffeine."

“Oh, no. Thank you, but you did get me my own,” Harold pointed to the cup of sencha green. Thank goodness Reese hadn’t fiddled with that part of their ritual, despite his sudden obsession in taunting Harold with forbidden fruit.

“You should try something new,” Reese prodded. “I promise, it's good, and the apple shot adds vitamin C.”

“That negligible health benefit is more than outweighed by the extra sugar you’ve consumed as a result.”  Harold pointed out. “You best be watching that intake.”

“Worried about my figure no longer being svelte?” Reese asked. He pushed the cup forward another millimeter. The scent of apples and cinnamon became nearly overwhelming. “A little bit won’t hurt.”

Mutely, Harold shook his head.

Reese did not frown, not exactly. But his fingers tightened around the cup, though he was careful to stop right before it cracked and scalded them both.

“Okay, Finch,” he said and backed away.

Harold couldn’t help but adjust his own hold on his own cup as well. He couldn’t help this clinging to the taste of the familiar. He could only hope for understanding.

And time.

“So, just how are we going to save the world today?”

—-

Day 548 - _Fruit_

“Can you please mute the microphone if you are going to have a snack break? I thought you didn't eat in the field,” Harold complained. He knew he sounded peevish and petty, but amplified by the ear jack, the _munch, crunch, munch_ of Reese chewing on an apple sounded like a series of small explosions.

He tried not to flinch, even though he was quite certain Mr. Reese could not see him. 

Just how much longer would the ex-agent carry on with this inane experiment?

"And must you also smack so loudly?!"

“It's a very good apple, I'm hungry, and I also need keep up my energy for when the bad guys come,” came the tart reply. "Plus, the core makes a good projectile, if I have to move fast. Speaking of, any movement?"

Harold’s fingers skittered over the keyboard, focusing and refocusing the views he had on his screen. Just to the north of  the intersection between Park and 28th, the scene had yet to change. There, as it had for the past five hours, sat a bright red Chevy ‘59 Task Force pickup. ( _A Chevy? Really, Mr. Reese!)_ It was quite the eye-catcher, but then again, it was meant to be. ( _Bait, Finch. Think bait.)_

"Not yet, Mr. Reese."

"Just keep on looking out for me."

"As if I would stop, even if you are being a bit childish and rude."

"Childish, Finch? I'm wounded!"

The words were highlighted by an especially juicy crunch, and a rather melodramatic _mmmmmming_ hum.

Harold glared at the speakers and their fined tuned digital surround sound ... of Reese enjoying his apple far too much.

He didn't reach for the volume controls, however, no matter how he had threatened to do so. As long Reese sat there, a big, red, tempting target -- Harold knew he would be on the other side of the line. Always. Even if he had to endure five hours of aural torture via fruit.

(There _had_ been that time with the museum, the pterodactyl, and a strange looking phone booth that had them waiting for four _days_. Harold had resorted to reading T.S. Eliot aloud by that point, and Reese had surprised him by knowing every word to _Old Possum's Book of Cats_. They both had shared a wry grumble at effanineffable names.)

This time, Harold had a volume of Coleridge ready. He debated whether to deploy it now in the skirmish between Reese's insatiable curiosity or wait until his boredom became even more dire, somewhere in the nadir between I-spy and alphabet cities. Twenty questions had been taken off the schedule when each game devolved into twenty-ways-I-can-snipe-at-you-ha!

Harold also had a copy of Nancy Drew meets the Hardy Boys. If Reese pulled out another apple, he was going to read it. _  
_

He was going to read it _and_ try out his best Nancy-discovers-a-clue voice. _  
_

(Besides, it was always good to introduce a few eccentric quirks to Mr. Reese's data maps.)

Although, now that he thought about it,  Reese might actually enjoy it _.  
_

The ex-agent could be delightfully hard to predict; Harold could still remember the flush of unexpected surprise in his chest when, during yet another grueling war-of-waiting, Reese had requested Kafka and expressed an appreciation for Bradbury and Le Guin. Since then, Harold had taken to selectively exposing the ex-agent to excerpts ranging from Blume to Hawking, just to see what would stick.

(Really, even after all the data he had tallied, the spreadsheets he had spread, the timelines timed down - _how_ had he missed something so important as Reese's love for Le Guin? Harold kept the wonder of this new information tucked in the front pocket of his brain, a bright pop in his mind. Fascinating.)

It was also fair play, considering how much glee the man took in stealth taunting him.

This most recent round had involved Harold's favorite flavor of bubblegum, the playoff chances of the Yankees, Braves, or the Mariners, before devolving into a semi-lecture about the best way to tie knots, and his favorite games on Coney island when he was a kid.

 _That_ attempt had been so poorly executed and blatant that Harold had ordered Reese to take a _real_ rest break and not one that involved an empty bottle.

Upon returning, however, Reese had pulled out the blasted apple. And started the infernal munching. The man had to be over dramatizing now; there was no way anyone could enjoy a piece of vegetation _that_ much.

And now there was _slurping_. The ex-agent was indeed talented; until now, Harold had not known it was even possible to slurp an apple.

“Mr. Reese, _please_ stop. Despite the intentionally exposed nature of this particular operation, do you really think an apple is a wise choice? Aren't there other, more covert fruits you could consume?"

“Reeeeally?” the way Reese drawled out the word made Harold mentally recite the 364th to 467th digits of pi to keep a hold of his exasperation. "So tell me, Finch, what is, in your opinion, a _covert fruit?”_

Reese’s voice had gone rumble soft over their connection. It also confirmed this much: not only was the ex-agent feeling dramatic, he was feeling far too much amusement, more so than the situation warranted. The sound wasn’t quite as alien to Harold as it had been before, but it did not make it any less aggravating. Still, it was infinitely more preferable to the sound of apple mastication, even if it was at his expense.

“Ah.” And, teasing or not, it was a very interesting question, Harold had to admit. “If I were to hazard a guess … a banana?"

"A banana," the words were flat, followed by several nearly noiseless puffs of air. Although the cameras could not focus in closely enough to confirm, Harold could reasonably guess Reese was gazing at the roof of the Chevy while snorting at Harold's appalling ignorance of spy appropriate fruits.

"I fail to see why my answer is so amusing," Harold protested, "bananas come self contained, they're not easy to tamper with, you can eat it even if you do not have any water to wash either it or your hands, and it won't dribble juice everywhere, and I postulate that in an emergency situation, the peel could be used as an obstacle or pedestrian hazard."

"I'll keep that in mind in the next emergency pedestrian situation."

The sound of huffed air intruded again across the comm line. It seemed that either Reese was either snorting once more ... or even more improbably, chuckling. Pride prickling, Harold sniffed, hands flying over the keyboard. 

"You're actually looking this up?"

"I believe you are the one who, at times, refers to me as tech support? Research is a part of my job description."

"And I want you to know that I'm very thankful for how you do your job. So what does Google say on the subject of clandestine clementines?" 

"Google? Please. As if I would trust your food safety to such plebeian sources. However, I am disappointed to inform you that your former employer does not specify the exact type of fruit to bring on a covert operation, though it has provided a most comprehensive list about the protocol of disposing of items eaten during a mission, including ...  bullets? Wait... hold on. What? Is that a misprint?"

"Never know when you might need to pull one from reserve, Finch."

"They made you eat bullets?!" Harold winced. "It has just become my fervent hope to discourage you from _ever_ supplementing your diet in such a manner! Just imagine the lead content!"

"I'm not going to eat a bullet, Harold."

" ** _Ever,_** Mr. Reese **,** " Harold insisted. Perhaps he had put a little too much emphasis on those words, but the thought of Reese "eating a bullet" -- either euphemistically or literally, made his own guts clench.

"Fine, fine. Ever _again,_ " Reese said, the tone of his voice changing as well, losing its low burr of humor and gaining something else, something not immediately quantifiable even after Harold adjusted the volume controls. "I'll be taking advantage of your generous grocery tab for as long as I can. "

A pause, filled only with the squeak of rusted cushion coils and the muted rustle of cloth rubbing against skin. Harold could almost imagine Reese stretching and leaning forward, maybe even cupping a hand around the voice in his ear. "So don't worry. As long as I have you as my reclusive billionaire, you're not getting rid of me that easily."

It wasn't anything like a promise; Harold knew better than that, knew better than to ask something that both of them couldn't ever give.

It was just ridiculous banter. Over covert fruit and improper diets, of all things!

Yet, Harold had to admit, it did make him feel more ... _settled_ ... somehow. Strange.

He typed furiously at the keyboard, instructing the cameras to focus and refocus yet again.

"Still there, Finch? Or have you stepped out to get some agency approved produce for the library?"

"That will have to wait until our next stakeout. Movement headed your way from the south. I do not have visual confirmation of their identities yet, but based on their distinctive skulking pattern, it is my guess that they're the ones we're looking for in relation to our number.  They should be arriving at your location with an eta of five minutes."

"Getting better a picking out the bad guys, Harold? I'm so proud."

"Yes, I am so very glad my skills at picking out the scum of humanity surpasses my skills at picking out espionage fruit."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I'd eat your covert bananas any day."

Reese could not see Harold's scowl, but he probably guessed at its presence -- no doubt about it, the huffs of air this time were definitely chuckles.

Ridiculous banter, Harold reminded himself, that was all it was. Next time, he made a mental note to have _Sweet Valley High_ ready as a counter.

"Focus, Mr. Reese, and try to leave the puerile and innuendo laden remarks to the gentlemen who are about to assault you and steal your shiny red car."

"Innuendo? I'm insulted -- that's some prime grade _blatancy_ right there. And, yes, for the record, you're not completely misguided about your fruit choices. Normally, I'd never eat an apple on most missions. Too loud, too bright, and the juices leave too much trace evidence behind. A bit sticky too."

Harold paused, fingers frozen from their task of hacking into the traffic light controls to give Reese more cover and to keep uninvolved civilian cars out of the way. "So why _were_ you eating an apple on _this_ mission?"

"Bait, remember? Oh, and look at that. Here come the fish ..."

It wasn't until Reese was safely back at his apartment (and the antique car thieving née money laundering née chop shop ring were limping their way into jail) that it occurred to Harold to ask what kind of bait, exactly, was an apple. Or, more importantly, just what Reese hoped to catch.

\---  

Day 549 - _Candy and Caramel_

"That's _quite_ enough," Harold finally stated, when Reese showed up with a bag containing a bright red candy coated apple alongside a caramel coated one. The wrappers read William's Candy, Coney Island.

A disappointed whine unfurled from the dog bed; Bear's nose had informed him crispy buttery crust was not involved in this newest round of fruit escalation.

Harold could empathize; he wanted to whine as well, though for different reasons.

"What do you mean, Finch? They're not for you. Our discussion in the car gave me a craving."

Harold pinched his the bridge of his nose, taking several deep breaths. To his side, he could hear Reese shifting his weight, preparing -- for fight, flight, or heaven knew what -- assault with a candied weapon mayhaps?

Gritting his teeth, Harold sorted through several algorithms for an appropriate reply before discarding every one. What was there to say? Except ...

When all else failed, there was one option that almost always worked. "I know you're not cruel in nature. You don't enjoy torture, psychological or otherwise. You don't live to cause pain. I know it."

The truth.

And there it was, that shifting of weight away from him; it was a subtle tell from an ex-agent well trained to hide such things, but a tell, nonetheless.

"You don't," Harold insisted again, "No one who is a monster spends such a great deal of effort and strength helping others, no beast would take its time to slip his own gloves into the pockets of the homeless on a very cold wintery day, no immoral creature would spend so much time spoiling formerly mistreated animals rotten. I hold by my initial assessment of you, and subsequent observations has only proved this theory to be true. You are not cruel or horrendous."

He straightened, tugging at his suit jacket, as if pulling firm on his conviction. "You also do not act without reason. So I _cannot_ , for the life of me, understand what this taunting will accomplish, why you won't let this go!"

For a moment, Harold thought that Reese might have brushed it off, might have just sniped back "let _what_ go?"

And if Reese had done so, if he had just continued playing this infuriating, incomprehensible game of pushing meaningless boundaries, Harold might have just really, truly, lost it -- complete with flung writing implements, a raised voice, and a possibility of overturned furniture.

But Reese relaxed his shoulders and took a half step backwards instead. His smile was a small thing, barely twitching the side of his mouth. "Why won't I let it go? Because ... you _used_ to like apples."

"And I don't anymore. Why are you so fixated on such a little detail, Mr. Reese? It's hardly an important one and certainly not something that requires a near daily assault. It's definitely not worth disrupting ..." blinking, Harold trailed off, letting his voice dwindle away as the realization hit.

When had it become this? When had this small, fragile constancy, this odd codependency of owning dogs and making sniping remarks while playing children's car games become something he did not want to risk?

It made him shudder. "It's just something so small, something so insignificant, something ..."  


"Something that clearly still bothers you, even now, verging on a year after Root kidnapped and tortured you? Because that's when this sudden apple avoidance started, far as I can tell."

Harold's hands fluttered into stillness.

Truth.

Always so damnably effective.

"I believe already bought you a beer about this and I have proven that I am, for the most part, fine. The timing and the details of what I like or don't like are not consequential to your job." Harold snarled his fingers into fists above his keyboard. Not for the first time, he wished there was sequence he could tap, a button he could push to make other people understandable or, in turn, make others understand.

 _I've done so well with the bigger picture,_ was what he wanted to say.

_Don't you see that? You must see that. I've been able to come out now, even though I know she's out there. I don't let her control my actions, I try not to let her get into my servers or my sanity, even if I do slip, now and then, with calling others' bad code, with how much I can't stand how others can be such bullies. I've come so far since then, since ... everything ...  
_

_You must see that. You must ... because you're the one that forced me come so far, despite myself. But I can't keep relying on this. It'll be taken away. And then'll come the fall._

He wanted to say it, needed to say those words -- not in the least because John deserved to hear them. Deserved to know that he had been the handrail and the push forward as Harold shakily stared at the blue sky world yet again.

Sitting suddenly felt too confining. Harold pushed back on his chair, forcing himself up as far and fast as the metal driven in his bones would let him. He needed to place one hand on the edge for momentary support, but he was still standing. There was that much, at least.

Reese yielded a step as Harold slowly straightened. But that, apparently, was as far as the operative would give, unwilling to go further than an arms length while Harold clutched at his desk, wincing. 

"For once, Mr. Reese, just let it go."

"No."

"This isn't up for discussion."

"Who's discussing anything? I'm _telling_ you, I'm not letting it go."

There wasn't any special tone or inflection to Reese's voice. His voice was matter-of-fact, as if stating the weather or remarking on the need to take Bear out for a run.

"Mr. Reese, that's just ... just ..." Harold scrabbled at the desk with his free hand, past the keyboard, hands finally alighting on the three nearest books, remnants of yesterday's number that he had yet to re-shelve. He gripped a volume, almost convulsively, and brought it up in front of his chest and between his body and Reese.

"Remember this?" he thumped the cover. " _This_ is why you're here. The numbers, _their_ stories, saving _their_ lives ... "

"Just give it up, Finch, I'm not going to say that I'm _not_ here for you too." Reese shrugged, the motion easy and loose in a way that makes Harold's spine creak with phantom jealousy.

"But you don't need to be! I am back in the field, I'm going out, I'm performing at the same level as ... before. Mostly. My like or dislike of certain fruits is irrelevant."

"And there goes the point again," Reese sighed, rubbing at his forehead. 

"Fine. Say you're right, that I'm just here for the job and nothing else. And you've known from the start how I prefer to do it -- I like taking my time, inserting myself into the target's life, getting close, building up trust. So, thing is, I've had a year and a half with you, Harold. So what, exactly, do you expect? Because that's what I did. Infiltrate, observe, report back, take action. I'm currently at the last stage now. Did you really think it would be different when it came to you?"

It shouldn't have hurt so much. Harold had known this, had prepared for it, from the moment he had said "I'm a very private person" until this very breath between them. He had known Reese had been building up his arsenal, storing away information that Harold cannot help but leak, one phone call at a time, one minute reading Bradbury, the next R.L. Stine. 

And it shouldn't have hurt.

"So yes, I notice the details. Maybe it's even something you want me to do, Harold."

"E-excuse me? Are you sincerely telling me I ... _welcome_ ... this intrusion into my privacy?Are you forgetting that knowing me, knowing what I've done  --"

"-- is dangerous? Yeah, I haven't forgotten the whole patient zero talk. However, this whole paranoia thing's been going on a lot longer than the Machine's been around, hasn't it?" Reese's eyes never left his.

"There's probably a reason behind it -- and I won't lie, I'm curious and l will find. But on the flip side, from the start, you didn't even try to feed me a cover story. Maybe you felt you had no other choice but a bare truth. Maybe not. I've seen you flow into a role; you're a pro -- the agency would've loved to have you. Your cover wouldn't have lasted forever, no, but it would have lasted just long enough to hook me on saving the numbers, long enough to make me as a long distance operative.

"But you didn't. And you didn't move away, even when I prodded. It's probably the most truthful you've ever been in any relationship, the most forthcoming you've been about what you need, the most honest you've been about what you expect from another person ... and from yourself.

"It's not like with your first partner, Ingram -- you _gave_ him what you wanted him to know. And not like with ..."

And there it was, the first sign of hesitation since Reese had walked in with a bag of candied apples and an intent to wield them as weapons.

The pause stretched, seconds strung out like a jump cord pulling thin, as Harold stared and stared and wished he had enough eyes and ears to take in and understand just how things had gotten to this point.

Reese firmed his chin, straightened his stance. His hands came up to his sides, still loose and empty, but he might as well have been holding his Glock and taking aim. "Not like with --"

" _Grace,_ " Harold finished, pulling the trigger for him.

Reese nodded once, smile gone like the scent of snow in the summer. Harold wondered if this half broken, half resolute expression was the same as the one Reese must have worn, back in that mission in Ordos, when he first received that kill order and first found Stanton in his gun sight.

Harold wished he could push over his chair, send it crashing to the floor, wished he could hit and throw and scream and shout in a maelstrom of anger, just _stomp_ out of the library. Despite the fact his spine would crack, even if he would lose all sense of balance, he still wanted to do so badly that his leg muscles clenched. He wanted to rail against John Reese, wanted to rip him open at _his_ most vulnerable points and tell him he doesn't any right to even _breathe_ the names he held so dear, the names which belonged only to Harold ...Finch. Wren ... Crane ...

_Damn._

There was a stiff gravity to his bones, a lesson in the sharp pain that drove into him every time he took a step, pulling him  down even now.

And there was Bear to consider as well. The dog had mashed his head low into his bed and he had pinned his ears back, eyebrows twitching as he tracked his two humans. He had yet to make a sound; the silence seemed worse somehow.

A dog and pastries and nights of stealth taunting ... when had it become so much, started to weigh so heavy?

"Don't flatter yourself. What you have, Mr. Reese -- what you think have of me is no more than what they did -- it's just a different part. And ultimately, it's nothing at all, a null set, a membership in an ideal of zero --, "

"You mean a set of non-measurable variables that has to exist in order for a measurable set to be maintained? Or do you mean the first step in building a formal theory of numbers -- divide out what the set is _not_ in order to divine what the set _is_?"

Harold nearly dropped the book still clutched in his hands, suddenly surprised out of the turbulence of his emotions. "Wait, what? You know _axiomatic set theory_?"

""I had to read a _lot_ of math books that time you got yourself kidnapped. And let me tell you, I don't think I understood most of it, but from what I did get... no, you're not null set.

"We're all measurable, Harold, no matter how you try to erase your trail. And I won't apologize for using what skills I have to take a measure of you. You're not a mission, but my intel on you is still as vital to me as any info you give me on any number or any assignment."

"Mr. Reese, that cannot possibly be --"

"It's _true_. Don't you understand that by now? Or do I have to read more Cantor?"

Reese grimaced, mouth turning down at the corners. He had the air of someone who had been preparing a pitch for a long time but was still unsure of the delivery. Yet, his posture never wavered; the lines of his stance were sure and strong and solid as ever.

" _You read Cantor's Set Theory?!_ "

 _"_ Somewhat? I looked at all the graphs. Not that it's helping any. You're better at this analogy thing than me, but c'mon, Finch, give me some credit here. I'm trying."

And he was.

And that was what pressed down on Harold the most; Newton's law in the form of John, 9.81 m/s and gaining force until impact.

John, with his knuckles dragging or not, was trying his best to speak Harold's _language,_ trying to connect through a series of math and numbers and equations, had cared enough to stumble through awkward analogies and theories with the forlorn hope of making sense. It's probably the most Harold had ever heard him talk at one sitting.

And all for him.

"Finch, thing is -- your 'personal data' counts for something."

"Mr. Reese ..."

 _"_ I don't know your real name, your social, or even your permanent street address -- workin' on it, but in the meantime, what I do know is this: you're planning our next excursion to see _Ran_ at Cinema Village and have outlined at least fifteen reasons why we should see it instead of going to _The Dirty Dozen_ , which is my choice, by the way."

"I hardly think our choices in movies has any --"

"Hang on. Not done yet,"  Reese titled his head downward, holding up a finger in admonishment. "You don't have a favorite color, per se, but you have a favorite color contrast; it's the shift between the colors instead of the colors themselves that fascinate you.

"Your appreciation for baseball is kinda nerdy -- especially given you don't like the sport for one particular team. You like it because it's a numbers game. By simply looking at the roster, I bet you already know the winner of the World Series even before the season starts. You still watch, though, just for the off chance of being surprised.

"You sleep on your right side now because your left pains you, and yes, that's why I moved some of the benches to the other wall last week -- it'll give you something to lean on when you forget you actually _do_ need sleep every twenty four hours or so."

Harold licked his lips and adjusted his glasses. But both actions did not help make the matter seem any more clear or palatable.

"But those are just meaningless details. Even when you put them together, it doesn't add up to anything, doesn't help you find out about my past, doesn't help us in future cases ..."

"Never said it would. Knowing all this will do nothing the next time someone aims an AK-47 at me. But it doesn't mean it's not important. Weren't you the one who taught the Machine that? About looking at the 'little stuff?'"

Harold froze, considering. Yes, he had programmed the Machine to know that the devil was in the details.

But he hadn't thought to apply the lesson to real, breathing humans, hadn't thought that the organic mind, with its limited memory and drive, could possibly be able to duplicate and extrapolate or even want to gather these mundane moments ... and for what reason?

"It's in the little things, Finch, like how you insist on holding chopsticks even if you're not really all that great at it; usually, more noodles fall back onto the plate than go into your mouth. It's in the way you actually go through the ritual of checking your own books out of your own library by using your own card in the system, even if you're just going down the street for a danish ..."

"Mr. Reese, fine; I get it. You've watched me, you've gathered up what you know, and now you can stop--"

"I'm almost done. I've also started noticing the little things about me. Do you know how odd it is that I now know that the microwave in the apartment _you_ gave me needs exactly one minute and twenty three seconds to make a hot pocket's crust crispy? That I'm planning on building an over the stove magnetic rack for my three omelet pans so they're ready when I don't feel like nuked food? That I care that my shower has good acoustics? I even like the fact that I still haven't figured out the exact configuration to maximize bracket space in the ammo closet. I think if I rearranged the semis, I can fit at least three more in. All this -- it's distracting, it probably blunts my edge, but I can't stop."

John shrugged, and if Harold was to label his expression, it would be something of a cross between wistful and wry and sheepish. It was something so unexpectedly  _soft_ that it caught at Harold's breath.

"I ... never really had the chance to have details before. It's taken me awhile to get used to it. But  ... I think I like it. And it proves that the tiniest parts of your existence matters, least of all because it's helping me give a definition to _mine,_  it's what sets the boundaries in how I see the world and solve its problems. It counts. You count. Either that, or I don't. _We_ don't. All in or null set."

Reese scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Okay. _Now_ , I'm done."

Harold swallows. Perhaps it was best that he hadn't knocked over his chair. He abruptly found it necessary to sit again

"You can't do that, John. _You can't._ I cannot be the base set for ...that's _not_ how it works! Even if I weren't here, the numbers would keep coming and --"

Harold stopped as Reese shook his head mutely.

He had known, in some ways, what it had meant when Reese had showed up at the train station. Had known his contingency had not worked out, that the numbers would go unsaved as long as he, Harold, went unsaved.

He had known it, in some ways, on the windblown roof top, with the city sparkling its cold splendor around him and his hands trembling at the trigger to John's vest.

But this-- he had not known _this_ would be the end result with Reese regarding him with something full and understanding and discomfiting to the extreme. 

" _You can't_ ,"  Harold repeated, though he knew, quite well, that repetition did not make anything a truth. "You just can't."   


Harold closed his eyes, feeling the gathering pull of John's gravity in ways that seemed almost beyond his words to describe -- so how had Coleridge put it? No, Frost was better in this case -- _the hurt was not enough_.

The fullness of  weight and the longing for strength; some days, he wished he could still know such poetry in a more abstract way, like he used to distantly know about the symbolism of apples, the idea of love and about coding people as numbers instead of by their effanineffable names.

 "I find ... I am at at a disadvantage here, Mr. Reese. I may have been able to program a exceedingly complex behavior prediction algorithms into the Machine, but this ...  I don't 'get it.' You _cannot_ make me believe that my like or dislike of apples has any part in defining _your_ existence. How _does_ knowing the 'small stuff' matter, if we're not on a mission, if it's not about the numbers _?_ What _is_ this collection of random facts building up to, if not for a cause? Just what are you trying to define with this data?!"

Nathan would have laughed, would have thrown his hands up and made some remark about Harold needing to get out more. Grace would have hugged him and said it was okay not to know, that they'd take it at his pace, and learn it together.

Reese, however, looked him straight in the eye and told him.

"A _relationship_ , Harold. _Our_ relationship. You know, the thing that happens when two people are around each other? That's what this is building up to, that's what it _has already_ built into, that's what's shaped itself around us even when you _weren't_ looking or listening. It's the thing where we wash and walk the dog together, remember to use the cushions and go out for late night beer. It's the thing all of us humans -- _yes, even you_ \-- want to happen; we want to connect and understand and remember each other in all these small, stupid, boring ways. If we're lucky, we get to _really_ know just one person -- and if we're very damn lucky, we get to understand more than one."

John Reese's smile was a very tiny, tremulous thing as it made its appearance again, but it was so at odds with who and how Harold had classified the man that its very presence might as well have been a neon sign.

"Because those details? That's _life,_ that's living _. That's_ what's relevant. We save lives, Harold, but you're the only life I get to help keep _living_ ... and whether you want to admit it or not, you do the same for me _._ That's why the fact you don't like apples anymore drives me nuts. I've worked too hard to let any piece of you go without a fight, especially any part you've lost against your will, that you've not tucked away from the world."

Reese did not have a thousand eyes or ears -- just the normal pairs of both. He did not have innumerable teraflops dedicated to processing information. But there was a wealth of knowledge coupled with a watching, protective patience.

And that haunting familiarity made Harold chest tighten.

This time, though, he had the distinct feeling that no code nor numbered directive would ever make John Reese stop gathering details and protecting this connection between them.

_Everyone is relevant to someone, Harold._

"You still really don't know the bigger things," Harold murmured.

John didn't know about the reason he had been sent to Ordos, the reasons behind the kill order that had cost him Jessica, or even --

"I know enough, and I'll protect the parts that I do know," John said. "I'm not asking for a signed copy of your autobiography. I'm just asking that you trust me, trust my judgement, and trust that I think it's worth knowing, no matter the price."

"And when you find the one detail you can't accept, that changes everything between us?"

"We'll deal with it then. Just ...  give me the chance to hold on to what I do know of you, reach my own opinions, and make my own choices. I'm telling you, I'm still going to stay. I'm still ... going to stay. So just ... please ... give me the chance to stay."

John repeated the words slowly, eyebrows furrowing, almost as if he has come to his own revelation.

For his part, Harold could not help but think of another series of repeating texts sent from another lifetime ago. He thought of connections, seen and unseen.

How strange to remember that others could make them, even without a Machine. 

John wasn't understanding or accepting like Grace, who had promised not to ask questions until Harold was ready. John didn't assume anything about him or respect him on a given face value, like Nathan did.

John was going to push and prod, he was a verb barely contained in a human form, always doing, always trying, always poking targets with sticks and shooting beehives with guns.

John wasn't going to be happy once he knew about Northern Lights. And it was _not fair_ , this lack of information between them. It wasn't fair to bind anyone to him in this manner, and there was a chance that John would still put a bullet between them, once he did know. 

It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, but it had been coming ever since the first time John had stepped into his life with arm against his throat. Harold should have known then; his thoughts had been a surprising mix of how _not terrified_ he was and how well the suits he had already picked out would fit.

Everything else had been small details since.

He licked his lips, then sighed. "Very well," he said, "Let's get on with living."

The candied apple was the most hideous shade of red Harold had ever seen, one that spoke of stop signs and fire trucks and districts where people made brief panting connections in the night. The chemical composition alone probably contained a whole encyclopedia of FDA warnings. John took a slow bite, the candy bright and sticky and tempting against his lips. Then he offered the rest of the fruit forward.

It tasted far too sweet, like sin and absolution, like the gravity of bones, like the knowing of the end.

He swallowed it down anyway and entwined his hand around John's for another bite.

-finis

**Author's Note:**

> Links of Interest:
> 
> [Some Eating](http://www.feastingonart.com/2009/05/okeefes-apple-crisp-with-caramel-sauce.html)
> 
> [Some Disposing](http://www.dawginc.com/facility-protection/waste-can-trash-receptacles/bear-proof-garbage-cans.html)
> 
> [Some Reading](http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/poem/1997/08/to_earthward.single.html#pagebreak_anchor_2)
> 
> Love and hugs go to: masayosi, giandujakiss, managerie76, atienne, no-surrender-no-retreat, presea66, cathrinemccord, candacestls1, alnee, cactusspatz, eruditemonk and theanishimori for their support when I originally posted the fic on tumblr. 
> 
> Without readers, a piece of writing is just an alphabet organized haphazardly; thanks for giving my words meaning. And for slogging through all that Reese emoting. Great googly moogly, he kept on going, even though he's not quite like that in canon ... and even after Harold hung a lampshade on it. Gaaaaah. 
> 
> So, um, yeah. Thank you for reading!


End file.
